There was a silence, a voice running through his mind, something about love in a certain country of Earth. Humans, he thought, were the most adept at speaking of love. But he knew nothing of love, knew only the silence that pervaded every space, despite the minuteness, despite the situation, the silence always was present after his thoughts turned to love, after he read of love, after he saw it.
For he knew nothing of love, it was said to be an emotion. He looks at the picture of T Pring, feels ill, feels pain that is physical, and yet the mental anguish is so much more severe, his body repressing without consciousness every reaction it finds. And he looks so calm. And nobody thinks to ask. The quiet. The minutes. The repetition of days upon days and still he wonders why he exists, what purpose he is serving, why he holds so firmly to one set of ideals based solely on the idea that to feel is bad, to think is good. He supposes Vulcan logic is sort of like Earth religion, all this talk of God, perhaps it is true, he knows not, he feels, recently, as if he knows nothing at all, simply equations and options and how to fix a computer. He feels, recently, useless.
He is drinking his evening tea, he does so every night, but this time it is torturous, because everything is void, and his life has no sound, even with a group of the ever-gregarious humans. Even with Kirk. He could have left, and he debated doing so, but stopped, remembering how every sound grated, like sandpaper, upon his very being. He cannot stand the silence, but the noise brings him to his knees, and he is claustrophobic, and he is restless, and he is completely without momentum,
A beep at the console stabbed through him. It was Kirk, he was coming, and he had no idea why. When Spock opened the door part of him longed to be able to feel, as Kirk did, the sheer power of one's body, that hardened confidence, but he had none of that. He felt weak, shaky, and alone in a place where he was powerless and everything hurt.
Kirk was talking about ship logs, about the last mission, it all filtered through but Spock had to fight the urge to lean against the wall for support. He was exhausted, the words sounding like inflated air through his ears, he grew frustrated, a world of static electricity surrounding him, halted only by Kirk's eyes piercing through and asking, with sudden perplexion, "are you alright?"
Spock said nothing, he fell, or at least he thought he had. He nodded, but really, it is all so white in his memory he does not know for sure. Kirk took Spock's hand, and incredibly cool contrast to the heat of his own body, and Spock saw the man look around, take in the surroundings, search for anything out of the ordinary. There was nothing. So hazel eyes set an interception course for the dark seas of Spock's, and he must have found what he was looking for, for there came upon the world a silence once more, and Spock shut his eyes, exhausted, and Kirk shut his eyes, realization, and something fell into place. I love you, he said, and Spock, with futility removed, felt the eclipse pass, felt the silence move, and then, with softness, with gentleness, returned, and repeated what had been said to him.
"This is how we make love when there is nowhere except where we are, and the only thing I believe in is you"